


The Six Paintings

by thatawkwardfriend



Series: Sherlock S4: Take 2 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's Restaurant, Angelo's date, Background Lestrolly, Cheating, Crime Scenes, Emotional Sex, First Kiss, Guilty John, Hurt John, Infidelity, John is Smart, M/M, Mary Morstan is Sebastian Moran, Mary's Past, Miscommunication, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty's return, POV Alternating, Post-Season/Series 03, Smut, Tarmac reunion, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock), Villain Mary, Warstan marriage problems, but it's more complex than that, cheating on Mary, cliff hanger, miss me, the AGRA drive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatawkwardfriend/pseuds/thatawkwardfriend
Summary: Jim Moriarty is back. Mary has been his number two for years and needs to figure out what this means for her. Meanwhile, John is pretending to still love Mary so he and Sherlock can safely figure out how to deal with her.It seems everyone is deceiving everyone, and no one can be trusted. In this time of crisis, John and Sherlock only have each other and must deal with Mary and an oncoming baby, while the threat of Moriarty's return looms over their shoulders.





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not a S4 fix-it. It's a rewrite of the first episode with hopefully no similarities to the actual TST. Each chapter is based on a soundtrack title. This is basically one possible version of how we thought it might go up until the moment TST aired :)

Sherlock frantically paced in front of the fireplace. One hand on his hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

Just moments ago, he had been recovering from an overdose that should have been fatal, after almost flying off for a suicide mission. Now he was back in 221B. Back in his home, but with no time to even take in the sweet, familiar smell because any moment now . . .

Heavy footsteps thudded urgently up the stairs, followed by the door crashing open. Sherlock turned to find John in the doorway – as expected – sweating and disheveled as if he’d sprinted here from his flat.

“John.”

“Sherlo-,”

The rest of his breathless greeting trailed off as they rushed to the middle of the floor and enveloped each other in a bone-crushing hug.

John buried his face in the shoulder of Sherlock’s suit. Sherlock clamped his arms around his back, pulling him in tight - tighter than what could have possibly been comfortable. John squeezed back just as hard in response.

About an hour ago, they had shaken hands on a tarmac and said their permanent goodbyes. Then Sherlock had turned and walked away, never to see him again . . . never to hear his voice or inhale his scent. Never to be graced with his laugh or feel his touch. He left and intended to die on that plane as he held his hand to his lips, hoping for the memory of John’s skin on his to be the last thing he felt.

And now by some miracle, he was back, and John was in his arms squeezing around his torso. He would never take his presence in his life for granted again.

Sherlock took one arm off John’s back and cradled the back of his head, pressing his face further into his shoulder. He was probably smothering him, but at that moment, all that mattered was that he was here. And he was never letting him go. Not ever again.

John reached one hand up and clutched the back of his collar like he’d be damned if he ever let him slip through his fingers again. He realized John had almost just lost him for the _third time._ He pressed his cheek into his crown in a silent apology.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there holding each other, neither wanting to let go or easing the tightness of their embrace.

But finally, they released their holds and stepped back. John kept his head down, as if embarrassed.

“Sorry.” He chuckled uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head. “Couldn’t do that in front of Mary,” he quietly added with a guilty undertone.

How dare he apologize. He had nothing to be sorry for. Sherlock would let John hug him like that every day if he wished. And it was him who should be apologizing. He was the reason John was with still with her.

“John,” is all he’s able to say.

John finally met his eyes with a small but unabashed smile. It lit his face up like the sun. “I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted into the quiet space just between them. The statement was simple to an outsider, but between them it held the weight of all they’d been through the last few years. All the times they’d almost lost each other, and all the times they never expressed how they felt.

Sherlock’s heart tugged at the warmth and affection radiating off his friend. He guided him to his old chair and sat him down. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he said before settling into his own.

For a moment they just enjoyed this – the two of them back in Baker Street, back in their chairs by the fireplace and ready to take on the world. Small smiles tugged at the corners of their lips as they reminisced those old days.

“So,” John finally said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. “What are we going to do about Moriarty?”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on his armchair. He didn’t know what to say, as he had yet to figure that out himself. But John, bless him, spoke up again in attempt to help.

“He really is back?”

“Yes.”

John nodded. After another beat of silence he tried again to prompt him into speaking.

“Do you . . .” He leaned back and rubbed his hands down his thighs, obviously bracing himself to say whatever was next. “Do you think Mary is involved?”

Sherlock looked at him. For the first time, he realized his friend appeared to have aged significantly since Mary’s identity was revealed. The creases in his forehead ran a little deeper, his eye bags hung a bit lower, he seemed exhausted.

“It’s . . . likely,” he answered quietly. “The timing just makes sense.”

He offered a small, sympathetic smile at John’s slight wince. The worn man looked down into his hands. He seemed disappointed, but not surprised in the least. This was just another tally to add to the reasons not to trust her, just one more way she’d let him down.

“How are you doing by the way?” Sherlock asked softly, when at last he couldn’t stand the sight of him sitting there looking so small and hurt. So _tired._ “With . . . everything?”

“I bloody hate it, if that’s what you want to know. I hate every damn day of my life I have to go back home to that . . . stranger.”

Sherlock leaned forward and cautiously placed his hand on his forearm. He was thankful when John didn’t pull away.

“I know. You only have to stay with her until we know it’s safe for you to leave. We just need to collect enough solid evidence to be damning.” John sighed heavily through his nose and looked away. “You’re strong, John. You’re stronger than anyone I know. You can do this just a bit longer.”

John met his eye again and offered a weak smile at the praise. “Yeah.”

Sherlock squeezed his forearm. “As soon as we have what we need, she’ll be locked up and you can come back home where you belong. Until, then you just need to keep pretending everything is fine.”

Sherlock expected he would look around the room, reminiscent of the time he’d spent here. But he simply locked eyes with him, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Yeah. Home.”

*********

Mary hastily pulled open drawer after drawer, rummaging through layers and layers of clothes she never wore.

She sighed in momentary relief. Her bullet-proof vest was still safely tucked under her bulky sweaters, along with her ski mask. She fleetingly wondered if perhaps she should start wearing it under her clothes, just in case.

She kicked the drawers shut and half-sprinted to the window bench John didn’t know could open. She’d even covered the surface in plush, decorative pillows so there would never be a need to sit on it. She brushed them all off in one careless sweep and lifted the top.

After digging through the sheets and blankets she’d stuffed in there as an extra layer of protection, she finally reached –

Yes.

Her assault rifle and two semi-automatics still lay there, collecting dust. She clutched her chest in relief. She knew they’d still be there. But after today, she felt a burning need to check as soon as she came home, just to be sure. She barely even heard John dart back out as soon as they’d arrived. Probably off to Baker Street or who knows where. There were more important issues at hand:

Jim Moriarty was back.

She had to figure out what that meant for her before she was thrown unprepared into whatever scheme he had planned.

For years she had been his faithful number two. Annie, he always called her. No one had ever called her that. She was Annabelle in the orphanage. Annabelle Gertrude Rosamund Abbott. She always hated her full name. Thought it was quite old fashioned. But Annie . . . she quite liked that.

He came to her one day when she was in her mid-30s. He told her he was looking for a faithful companion with her skillset. He promised her comfortable living, excitement, companionship. She’d never have to worry about anything again. As someone who grew up with nothing and no one, it sounded wonderful. She accepted.

"Thank you, Mr. Moriarty.”

“Oh please,” he said with a warm twinkle in his eye. “Call me Jim.”

And so they became a team. Jim and Annie.

She first laid eyes on John Watson six years later. When she had a sniper rifle aimed at him from over a ledge.

"What would you like me to make him say next,” she heard distantly. Oh, he was cute. When she saw him run up and grab Jim, she felt undeniably attracted to him. The devotion and loyalty he had for this man Sherlock Holmes, it was heartwarming. It was really too bad she might have to kill them. But he would always remain a fond memory of hers.

In the end, Jim let them go. 

A few years later, she heard him say he needed someone to seduce John Watson. Sherlock Holmes was going to die, one way or another, and someone needed to watch his companion to make sure he was dead. If he somehow escaped his inevitable death, John would be the one to know.

She eagerly volunteered, enduring Jim’s merciless teasing afterward. “So you’ve gone and fallen for the army doctor, have you Annie?”

Sherlock Holmes died the next day, and so did Jim. At least, that’s what everyone was supposed to believe. Sherlock had died for real. She watched him jump with her own eyes, as she once again had her sniper rifle aimed at John. He was just as charming and handsome as she remembered. She couldn’t wait to meet him face to face.

But Jim. Jim had said he’d ensure Sherlock’s death at whatever cost, be it his own life. However, she thought the implication was that he’d somehow fake it. Not die for real, or just disappear for months on end. She didn’t know what to think.

So she waited.

She gave John a respectful mourning period of about six months before landing a job at his clinic and becoming Mary Morstan.

He took a liking to her almost immediately. The poor man was so lonely. She was perhaps a beaming ray of sunshine in his dull, dull life.

The year they spent dating was wonderful. She genuinely liked John Watson. Maybe even loved him. And as more and more time passed with no contact from Jim Moriarty, she grew think maybe he really was dead.

Well. The thought broke her heart just a little. After all, he’d been there for her when she had no one. But if Jim really was gone, there was nothing stopping her from living her life with John.

But then Sherlock Holmes had turned up alive, on the night John was going to propose to her no less, and ruined everything. She heard from Jim what this man could do, and she knew fooling him about who she really was would be no easy task.

She and John married not long after. But through their honeymoon and first month of marriage, she knew John missed him. And oh, how she resented that.

When John told her about the Magnussen case he and Sherlock were working on, she decided to take things into her own hands. She was astounded that she’d managed to fool Sherlock for this long, but with her information in that snake’s hands, everything could be ruined.

She broke into his office, but horribly misjudged the timing. Sherlock showed up and offered to help her. She nearly laughed. Did he even know much shit she’d pulled herself through all these years? What did he think he could offer her that she couldn’t do for herself?

“Oh Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.” 

Why not kill two birds with one stone while she was here? She’d be gone before John ever found out, and her secret would remain safe. Sherlock would be dead, and she could go back to being Mary Morstan.

So she pulled the trigger.

That was her biggest mistake. Sherlock somehow survived and exposed her to John- _the bastard._ She’d never forgive this. And John would never forgive her.

. . . Except somehow he did. As the two of them hugged in the Holmes’ living room, she vowed to finish Sherlock Holmes. Someday, but not yet. For now, she just had to be thankful John still wanted her.

In the end she had to be content with Sherlock being sent on a suicide mission. Even though he didn’t die by her hands, she won. John was hers.

But then her world was turned upside down, yet again.

 _“Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”_ repeated all around them, covering every screen in England. Both dread and exhilaration filled her stomach. Jim Moriarty was alive. He was alive all this time and he never contacted her. The betrayal stung like a slap.

What did this mean for her? For them?

She hadn’t exactly been his faithful servant while he was away. Not that it was entirely her fault. How could she have notified him of Sherlock’s return if she thought he was dead?

Regardless, he was back now. And she didn’t know how safe she was. Perhaps she should keep a bag packed just in case. Throw in her guns and a few of the wigs she kept taped under the wardrobe. She could run away. Leave Annie and Mary behind and become Rose this time.

But if she left, what would happen to Sherlock and John? Well, Sherlock she could care less about. He’s had this coming to him since before she was in the picture. But John. _Her_ John. Could she leave him? Would he go with her?

And the baby. She was almost seven months pregnant. If she had to flee at any point, what would she do with her child? 

She closed the top of the bench and picked up a picture frame on a nearby stand. Her heart clenched as she stroked her thumb over her and John’s faces, looking a bit younger and a bit happier. A completely different time.

What the hell was she going to do . . .


	2. 59 Missed Calls

The soft morning light teased John’s eyelids open. One arm was tucked behind his head, and the other gently clutched the sheets over his torso.

It took a moment for him to notice the light weight on top of him. Glancing down, he found a mess of soft, blonde curls nestled comfortably on his chest. A slight grin tugged at his lips. For a moment, he could pretend this was the Mary he married. The one who’s spicy humor made him laugh at the most unexpected times. The one who gave him head massages when he was sick. The sweet, spunky woman he had loved.

His eyes traced down the line of her arm, where he found his phone in her palm, her thumb lazily scrolling.

“Mary, what the hell?!”

He bolted up and snatched his phone out of her palm, the affection he felt for her evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. Behind him, he heard her curl back up into the sheets, chuckling merrily. “I think your boyfriend misses you, John,” she mocked.

John climbed out of bed and wrestled his jeans on, doing his best to ignore the shrill giggles from the bed. Sure enough, looking through his notifications, there were indeed 59 missed calls from Sherlock.

Panic spiked through his gut as he saw the time stamps. One right after another. All just about an hour ago. Possibilities of all the dreadful things that could have happened flashed through his mind at top speed.

“Oh god,” he breathed, frantically searching the room for a shirt to throw on.

“Aww. And look, he misses his boyfriend too!”

John gritted his teeth. Hearing her joke about their closeness, which she did quite often, always irritated him to no end. She didn’t know what it was like for him before Sherlock died. She didn’t know how essential they once were to each other’s being. She didn’t know anything.

She watched him buttoning his shirt from the bed, smiling at him like a mom who knew who her kid’s crush was. He averted his eyes in annoyance. He’d very much like to tell her where she could stick her comments about Sherlock, as he could be in great danger right now, but he held his tongue.

He grabbed his wallet, trying to ease the anxiety in his stomach and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back later.”

“Where are you going?”

He halted. “Where am I-? Where the hell do you _think_ I’m going?”

Mary’s twinkling eyes hardened. Her smile fell. “John. May I ask what your problem is?”

“My problem –?” he stopped himself and breathed deeply.

_My problem is that I don’t even know who the hell my wife is. You shot my best friend and think you’ve gotten away with it. You think that since I’ve forgiven you (as far as you know) you can just go on teasing me about Sherlock like you didn’t try to kill him a few months ago. My problem is that you think we can just carry on as normal, when you should be behind bars and never allowed to even speak his name again._

But instead of saying any of this he fixed her with a pointed glare. “I have 59 missed calls from Sherlock, Mary. As you already know. I’m going to make sure he’s okay.”

This seemed to satisfy her, and the gleeful twinkle returned to her eyes. “Alright. Go run after him like a good little puppy, then,” she teased with a cheeky smile. “Come give me a kiss before you go.” John was astounded that she was asking him to waste time with this. This wasn’t some trip to the grocery store. He didn’t have all the time in the world.

He suppressed an eye roll and bent down to peck a smooch on her proffered cheek.

“Oh, and John?” She nearly whispered as he began to straighten back up. The smile was still plastered on her face, but the light in her eyes was replaced with a cold blankness. “Don’t take too long.” 

Was that a note of threat he detected in her voice? It didn’t matter. He would take however long he bloody wanted. He dialed Sherlock’s number and rushed out of the flat, hailing a cab.

About ten minutes later, he pulled on the knob to 221B. Locked. _Shit._ He had forgotten his keys. He pounded hard, dialing Sherlock for the fourth time with no answer. By now, his heart was racing and his stomach clenched in panic. Horrible scenarios continued to flood his mind.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door in her dressing gown. “Oh, hello dear. I thought . . . didn’t you stay here last night?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, pushing through the door. “I went home . . .” he trailed off as he looked around the foyer anxiously. “To my wife,” he finished, leaping up the stairs two at a time.

His heart dropped as he slammed the door to their living room open. The lights were off. Complete silence. The flat was never this . . . empty when Sherlock was home. Even if he was just laying comatose on the sofa, he somehow still made his presence known to everyone that entered the room.

“Sherlock?” he called out anyway. No response. “Shit,” he muttered, and ran down the stairs dialing him again. “Sherlock, where the hell are you.”

**********

Sherlock tore another bin open. “How sure?”

“Absolutely sure!” Molly nearly yelled at him. “Sherlock, stop it. They’re not here.”

Sherlock ignored her and rummaged through her files, adding to the increasing pile of loose papers on the floor and table.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re making a mess.”

He turned on her. “You’re absolutely sure you filed Moriarty’s autopsy files here and nowhere else?”

“I didn’t perform his autopsy. But yes, if they were here, they’d be in one of those drawers.”

But Sherlock didn’t hear anything past the first sentence. “You didn’t . . . what?”

“Well, I was a bit busy at the time getting everything with your fake corpse in order.”

“Hm . . . fair enough. Who did it then?”

“A trusted coworker of mine, Ryan. He’s very good, I promise. He said everything seemed to check out fine.”

Sherlock slammed the drawer shut in frustration, making Molly jump slightly.

“Not good enough! You’re the only one here who could have identified his face with 100 percent certainty. If a stranger performed his autopsy, who’s to say it was even his body?”

“So you’re saying you both faked your deaths the same way? Stealing corpses?”

“I’m saying, now we’ll never know for sure, if some nitwit performed the autopsy and the files are nowhere to be found.” He paused slightly as an idea formed. “Where is he?”

“No, Sherlock. You’re not going to threaten my colleagues.”

“Full name and address?”

“No.”

Just as Sherlock was going to ask for his social security number, John and Lestrade burst in the door.

“Who the hell called you?” he snapped at Lestrade.

“I did,” Molly interjected. “If the files are gone, there’s been a theft.”

“Came running as soon as I heard. Ran into John on the way in.” Lestrade was directing his words at Molly, not him, which Sherlock found strange.

Sherlock gave him a quick once-over. He said he’d come running as soon as possible. But the dampness in his hair suggested he’d gelled it up right before leaving. He picked up a trace of recently applied cologne as well. Instead of berating him for cleaning up before coming to the morgue of all places, he turned to John.

John was panting with his hand on his knees, his face red from exertion.

“Sherlock,” he growled low. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t just call someone 59 times and then bloody disappear!”

“Well if you’d answered you would know exactly where I was, and why I wanted you to meet me.”

“Sherlock, I thought-!” He stopped himself and straightened back up, seemingly calmer. “Just leave a bloody voicemail or text next time, alright? You had me nearly scared to death.”

Sherlock thought perhaps it wasn’t the best time to say none of this would’ve happened if he’d just answered.

Lestrade cleared his throat in attempt to get them back on topic. “I uh . . . did a quick search through my office as well. To see if someone had brought them in for inspection. Nothing there either.”

Sherlock paced and tugged at his curls. He passed John and Molly, who were eyeing him curiously, and Lestrade who was doing the same while sneaking side glances at Molly.

Moriarty had supposedly died about three years ago, at the same time he had. The files could have gone missing anytime since then and they’d never know.

He stopped abruptly in front of Lestrade. “Well there’s been a theft, Inspector. Are you going to do something about it, or are you just going to continue staring after Molly like a love-starved tit?”

John and Molly’s heads both snapped towards Lestrade, who was now red in the face, sputtering like a deer in headlights.

Sherlock grinned with smug satisfaction. “Come, John. We’re done here.” He pulled him towards the door. “We’ll leave this petty theft in the more than capable hands of the Detective Inspector, who has gone to the nice trouble of cleaning up his appearance for this investigation.”

They passed Molly, who was blushing furiously and avoiding eye contact with anyone. The door shut behind them, leaving Greg and Molly alone, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.

Several uncomfortable beats of silence passed before Greg spoke up.

“So, you want to um . . . I don’t know. Maybe we could –,”

“Have coffee?” Molly finished for him, perking up.

“Yeah.” His grin stretched wide as he looked down into Molly’s beaming face. “Yeah. Coffee sounds great.”

**********

John was practically jogging to keep up with the long-legged drama queen in front of him.

“Oi, Sherlock. Hold on.” Sherlock slowed to allow him to match his step on the sidewalk. “What the hell was that?”

“He was obviously going to ask her out eventually. I just did him a favor and sped up the process. Made things easier.”

“Greg’s a grown man. I’m sure he can handle his love life on his own.”

“He can, but it was annoying to watch him pining while he should be focused on this case. Now he’s got his date and he can focus on what’s important.”

“Sherlock, you bloody humiliated him.”

“Details.”

John suppressed a sigh. “Do you mind if I hang out a Baker Street for a bit?” He really just needed any excuse to stay away from the flat longer. Yes, Mary had practically threatened him to not be too long, but he’d enlist again before he let her put a leash around his neck.

“What on earth would we do at the flat? Let’s stop somewhere for lunch instead. You didn’t have breakfast before meeting me at the morgue.”

“Yeah, well. I was too busy chasing after you like a puppy.” He noticed the twinge of annoyance in his own voice.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Let’s do lunch then. Angelo’s?”

They’d never been to Angelo’s in the daytime before. The restaurant was brightly lit with afternoon daylight instead of dim street lights and candles.

It was mostly empty, but they took their usual booth in the back by the window anyway.

Angelo squeezed their shoulders and set a candle on the table – at one in the afternoon. Instead of correcting him this time, John and Sherlock just made slow eye contact across the table and burst into a fit of giggles.

The significance of choosing Angelo’s was not lost on either of them: this was where their story began. John would never forget the energy that radiated between them that night. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced with anyone.

When their laughter died down, Angelo returned with drinks.

“What can I get you boys this afternoon?”

Sherlock instantly ordered his usual for him. “He’ll have the spicy fra diavolo.”

“Ah. And so will he,” John added pointedly. He shot Sherlock a look saying he knew he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and not to think he can get out of meals around him.

“Right away. On the house.”

“Thank you, Angelo.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment or two, before Sherlock spoke up.

“It really doesn’t seem like that long ago,” he said quietly, looking around as if another scene were playing in his mind’s eye. John smiled softly at him. “But at the same time it feels like an entirely different lifetime.”

Their knees knocked contentedly under the table, and neither made any attempt to move them. Sherlock’s fingers drummed lightly. But not impatiently, like they usually did. More like there was a tune in his head, as he was tapping it out absent-mindedly.

Sherlock was looking just past his head, his eyes glazed over like his mind was on another planet. He wanted to lean forward and rub those forehead creases out with his thumbs, and tell him to just be here in this moment with him.

John held his glass to his lips and took a moment to admire him, something he hadn’t had the chance to do since he returned. He had aged, yes, but underneath was still the same man that giggled with him on the stairwell. The one who played the violin for him when he had a nightmare, and sat through Bond nights just to make him happy. His heart swelled with affection just looking at him, something that never happened with Mary. Not even at their best. 

Sherlock suddenly looked up and inhaled, like he was bracing himself to say something. “So were you coming onto me that first night?”

John nearly choked on his water. Whereas a moment ago his heart pattered with love for this friend, it how raced in a panicky fit.

“God, Sherlock. Warn a man before you just spring something like that on him.” But he softened when he took in Sherlock’s vulnerable, waiting eyes. “Um . . .”

Well, he had asked him if he had a boyfriend, and made it known he was glad he was single. Yes, that was pretty damning. What could he even say? He could deny like he had at the time, and then deal with Sherlock crawling back into his hole and closing off emotionally. He probably wasn’t used people not wanting him. 

Or he could fess up. Once he was no longer with Mary, he’d be able to begin his life anew. He could start fresh with Sherlock too. This was a conversation they’d probably never have again.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to just admit it. Just one word.

“N-no,” he cleared his throat. “Of course not. I’d just met you.” With every word that left his mouth, he felt more and more like vomiting. He tried not to notice how Sherlock’s eyes lowered, how his shoulders dropped just slightly.

He wanted to take it back instantly. To reach out and hold Sherlock’s hands and tell him just how taken he was with him that first night. How he’d have been willing to move into his bedroom right that very night if he’d just asked. But the words died in his mind before they could even reach his throat.

Sherlock simply nodded once, and drummed his fingers more anxiously, refusing to make eye contact . . . John felt horrible. The next words bubbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“But . . . what if I was?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up towards his. They seemed to be begging him to say something more. John could only stare back and hope he’d answer with what he wanted to hear.

Angelo arrived with their food, breaking the dreadful, heavy silence. John plastered on a fake smile and thanked him as he set down two identical, steaming plates of pasta in front of them.

Once they had food in front of their faces, the moment was lost. They ate in harmonious silence, their knees once again knocking under the table.

After some time, John noticed Sherlock had stopped eating and was staring him expectantly. He realized he’d stopped eating himself and was simply watching him in wonder (for who knows how long) with a stupid, cheesy grin on his face.

This realization made Sherlock’s reaction highly amusing. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes defiantly asked “What?” as his fork was frozen halfway to his mouth. A bit of sauce lingered on the corner of his lip.

“Are you quite all right, John?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, sorry. Just, you know, with Mary and the wedding and everything, we never really got to spend time together after you returned. I mean, we went on cases and stuff. But nothing like this.” He smiled warmly. “I really missed you, Sherlock. I don’t think I told you that.”

Saying he missed Sherlock was perhaps the understatement of the year, but it would have to do for now. It seemed to be enough for Sherlock, who remained frozen with his fork still in the air, his eyes now wide and glistening.

“I missed you too, John. More than you can know.” John’s smile stretched, and a small grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s lip in return. He let out an affectionate chuckle and reached for his napkin.

“Sherlock, you’ve got a bit of . . .” He leaned forward and swiped the bit of sauce off his lip, ignoring the pair of wide, horrified, nearly _offended_ eyes fixed on him. When he leaned back, Sherlock seemed to be malfunctioning. His eyes fluttered madly. Was ‘adorable’ an appropriate way to describe a man like him?

John ignored him, and they continued eating in comfortable silence, their ankles crossed against each other’s under the table.


	3. Murder This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an epiphany and Mary receives a visit from an old companion.

Sherlock stood facing the window of his living room fiddling with the engraved penknife in his hand.

He ran his fingers delicately over the intricate, hand-carved design, and then over the wicked, gleaming blade that jutted out of it. On the side of the wooden handle were the initials ‘B.R.’

Beppo Rovito.

Beppo had killed his boyfriend Pierto after a heated argument, and then pushed the penknife into the clay of a drying Thatcher sculpture. He confessed to the murder when Sherlock and John caught him breaking into various houses to find the sculpture with his knife so he could destroy it.

John had written up Beppo’s case on his blog a few years ago. ‘The Six Thatchers’ he’d called it. Sherlock kept the knife as a memento. He’d even used it a few times to stab files into the mantelpiece, earning him scoldings from John.

He didn’t fail to see the irony in working their case. His client was in love with her best friend (Pierto) and concerned that he was in a somewhat abusive relationship with Beppo. Little did he know how much his life would reflect this particular situation in the coming years.

What made it even more ironic was the use of a weapon with Beppo’s initials on them. That penknife had been his ultimate downfall. The last piece of evidence they needed before . . .

Sherlock stilled his fingers around the knife. Of course.

He nearly leapt across the living room and fished his phone out of the cushions of his chair. He pressed ‘1’ on speed dial and waited impatiently.

“John,” he said urgently. “Come to Baker Street immediately. Bring Mary’s flash drive.”

**********  
Mary shut the door to her office behind her, setting her purse and keys down on the chair.

She unbuttoned her jacket irritably. Nothing sounded better than pouring herself a glass of wine and settling in front of the couch as soon as she got home. Only a few more hours of her shift at the clinic and she could welcome the warm buzz only alcohol could provide her.

She draped her jacket over the back of the chair and flicked the light on.

“Hello Annie dear. . .” a familiar voice drawled from behind her.

She froze. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. After all, its owner had given her her career, her whole life. Everything that was dear to her. And there was only one person in the world who’d call her Annie.

She turned slowly, and leaning back in her desk chair as if he owned it was Jim Moriarty. 

A sly smile played at his lips. He’d changed since she last saw him. She remembered him always being clean shaven, but here his stubble had grown into a thin, dark line above his lip and tracing along his jaw. His hair was also shorter than she remembered. But he still carried himself with that same quiet, knowing confidence that would make anyone else in the room uneasy, but only ever put her more in awe of him.

Yet now, she found that a large fraction of that awe had evaporated with time and distance. Time that he’d been alive and never bothered to contact her. And distance she happily would’ve crossed to be with him, had he only asked. Looking at him now, she felt only confusion, betrayal, and a twang of bitterness.

“What do you want, Jim?”

“What, I can’t just drop by and say hi to my favorite girl?”

“I’ll ask again, Jim. What do you want?”

“What’s the matter Annie?” he asked in that fake, sticky-sweet voice he used when he was toying with someone. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” He looked down at her bulging stomach with a raised eyebrow. “Or should I say, both of you?”

She bit into her trembling lip. “Three years, Jim!” she finally bursted. Once the words were out, the angry tears welled up, and her chest constricted. “No calls, no messages. Nothing!”

His expression remained blank. He gave no reaction to even show if he’d heard her or not.

She sucked in a deep, wobbly breath, and looked away to privately dab at her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She hated how weak her voice sounded, wet with tears and worn down with emotion.

“Aww, none of that now,” he drawled, rising from the chair and stalking towards her. He stopped in front of her and watched blankly as she continued sniffling softly and wiping forming tears from her ducts before they fell. “Are you happy to see me?” he repeated softly – and genuinely this time.

She looked up into his dark eyes, empty and cold to outsiders, but full of quiet mischief and life to her. “Yes,” she whispered shakily and leaned into his open arms. He pulled her in and rested his chin atop her curls. His suit smelled like spicy mint and earth, just like she remembered.

When at last he pulled back, he gave her a moment to collect herself.

“You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes. You know what I need to do? What I didn’t get to finish doing before?” She shook her head. “I made a promise to burn the heart out of him. I intend to keep it.” 

She nodded, although she wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “Jim. We can’t just go back to the way things were. I’ve made a life for myself here. I’m Mary Watson now.”

Jim threw his head back and laughed, startling her. “I made you into Mary Morstan. Don’t tell me you actually thought you could become her. I once was your life. And I still am and always will be.” He took her hands in his, dipping his head slightly to look into her eyes. “Remember what we once had, Annie?”

She pulled her hands away, shaking her head weakly. “That was years ago. I’ve moved on.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were a lie.

He took her hands again. “And we can have that again! Just you and me. Like we were always supposed to be.”

Mary sighed and turned away. She’d once given him everything and he left her behind so easily. She’d built so much for herself here without him.

“I need you, Annie. I need you to help me with this,” he continued. “Remember Sherlock? Remember what he did to you?”

Anger flashed through her at the memory of him exposing her identity to John in the most humiliating way.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. We could end him. Together, we could burn his heart out.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you know why I told him to kill himself?” She shook her head again. “It’s little Johnny boy,” he whispered like it was a secret. “He’s a sum of everything Sherlock has tried to shield himself from all his life. All those pesky feelings. So I gave him a choice. Kill himself, or see his dear doctor die. Either way, they were to be permanently separated. And thus, his heart burned out.”

Mary nodded in understanding. She’d seen for herself how Sherlock felt about John when he jumped into that bonfire without hesitation. It enraged her to no end.

“Sooo . . . since they’re happily back together now,” he didn’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes at his wording. “We need to try again. But this time I want him to suffer harder than he ever has. More than when he was away playing dead.”

“Does this mean I have to kill Sherlock again?”

An unnerving smile stretched his lips. “No, my dear. Not Sherlock.”

********** 

John hung up from Sherlock’s phone call and half jogged to his bedroom. He had almost forgotten all about that damn drive. He’d kept the real one of course, and had looked through it quite thoroughly with Sherlock. What they found there was not what they had expected. There were only two documents on it. Both contained only a list of names. One was obviously a list of everyone she had killed, as well as the year and location. The other one, they figured, was a list of identities she’d taken over the years. At the top of the list was ‘Annabelle Gertrude Rosamund Abbott.’ At the bottom: Mary Morstan.

John had happened to own an identical flash drive and had scrawled Mary’s initials on them before Christmas dinner. That was the one he threw in the fire while the real one remained safe at home.

He opened his closet door and shoves his clothes to the side, clearing a space in the far back corner. Reaching down, he removed the three spare comforters covering the box he was trying to reach, and pulled it out into the room.

Inside the box were things from 221B he’d kept when he moved out after Sherlock’s death. Things he intended to keep, but never unpack. Somehow it just seemed inappropriate to display them in the flat he shared with his wife.

Mary didn’t know the box existed. He kept it tucked in the corner of his closet under all those blankets because he knew she’d never have any reason go look there.

He opened the top flap and first took out a few of Sherlock’s shirts. The purple one he’d always liked (he was shocked Sherlock never noticed it was missing after his return), the sky blue one, and one of his many black shirts. He lifted one to his face. Sherlock’s scent lingered there, but only slightly. John didn’t bother keeping track of how many times he’d fallen asleep with his face buried in one of these shirts when he was living alone.

He laughed as he took out the next item. The ashtray from Buckingham Palace. Sherlock had stolen it just to make him laugh. He smiled and shook his head at the memory of him grinning proudly to himself and nonchalantly tossing the tray up in the air.

Next was – oh god – John’s gift to Sherlock from their last Christmas together at 221B. A hand-made, yellow and black striped pocket magnifier. John knew he liked bees. He had about six encyclopedias on them as well as a poster up in his room. Not to mention that on the first (and last) time Sherlock was ever allowed to choose the film for movie night, he picked a bee documentary.

So when John saw the striped magnifier at some odd booth at a fair, he grabbed it, not even bothering to look at the price. He grinned remembering how Sherlock had lit up like a Christmas tree and starting taking it on every case immediately. John set that one aside. Sherlock would probably want it back.

The item underneath the magnifier was a file. John knew he really didn’t have time to be doing this, as Sherlock’s phone call had sounded rather urgent, but he took it out and opened it anyway.

Inside were dozens of photographs he had made prints of from his phone solely so he could delete them from his camera roll and put them away forever.

There was the first selfie Sherlock took (after John had showed him how), with a body at a crime scene. Then the two of them celebrating Sherlock’s birthday at Angelo’s. Angelo stood behind them with one hand squeezing either of their shoulders. John was smiling like a normal human being and Sherlock sat with an almost intentional look of indifference. Behind that was a picture John had secretly snapped when Sherlock was laying on the sofa lost in his mind palace. He had looked so ethereal all stretched out in his posh, tailored suit, his pale hands steepled under his pointed chin. He couldn’t resist.

And there were many, many other photos John couldn’t look at, because he was running on sensitive time and he could feel his heart beginning to constrict at the memories.

Next in the box was a book about the history of the British army Sherlock had gotten him. He never got around to reading it, but inside, the pages were filled with cross-outs, scrawled footnotes, and corrections.

And lastly, Sherlock’s Persian slipper. Hidden safely at the bottom for extra protection.

John took it out and fished around in the toe to find – nothing.

“Oh god,” he breathed, taking his phone out with trembling fingers and dialing Sherlock. “Oh god no. No, no, no.”

“Sherlock,” he said as soon as the ringing has stopped. “It’s gone. The AGRA drive is gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying so far -Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	4. AGRA

When Mary finally came home, she nearly ran into John in the doorway of their flat.

“Oh, John. Where are you going?”

A plastic bag was in his hands, as well as his jacket and keys. It seemed he had been ready to dart out the door had she not showed up. For a moment, she thought she saw anger in his eyes. But this wasn’t ‘Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong?!’ John. This was more like ‘Your way. Always your way’ John. That quiet, almost calm anger simmering dangerously just underneath the surface.

“John? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” he breathed, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. He calmed himself and cleared his throat. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I was just heading out.”

She tilted her head at him, still blocking the doorway. “Where?”

“Baker Street,” he nearly snarled before forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Your wife just got home from a bloody long and ridiculous shift at work. Aren’t you going to have a glass of wine with me and ask me how my day was?” Her keys clattered on the kitchen counter as she set them down with frustration, still watching him carefully. 

“Oh for god’s -,” John breathed before checking his anger again. “How was your day at work, Mary?” he asked through almost gritted teeth.

“Long and tiring. How was your day?” John resumed pacing the kitchen like a caged lion, looking like he’d rather be doing anything than making small talk with his wife. His eyes kept darting to the door behind her like he was waiting for an opportunity to bolt.

Mary reached down to her thigh and brushed her fingers over the AGRA drive she had strapped under her jeans. It was obvious to her where John had hid it as soon as he moved in. She had observed that whenever he wanted to put something away for safekeeping or storage, his closet was the first place he’d go.  It almost amused her how he thought he could keep things hidden from her in their own flat. 

Like a punch to the gut, Jim’s request suddenly flashed through her mind:

“ _ No, my dear. Not Sherlock.” _

She averted her eyes from John’s. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this to him. Even right now when he was desperate to get away from her, looking moments away from wrapping his hands around her neck, she loved him. 

But it was a selfish love. Even she could acknowledge that. If she loved him unselfishly, she’d allow him to go to Baker Street where he was happy. But she wanted him for herself. She wanted to  _ own _ him. When her identity was revealed, she hadn't been sorry about shooting Sherlock. She was sorry John found out who she really was and that perhaps he’d leave her. It was selfish and she gave up trying to deny that a long time ago.

She shouldn't have fallen in love with him. Not for real. Mary Morstan was supposed to be an act. She’d had her gun aimed at John from a distance twice before when she was Annie. But now the thought of actually pulling the trigger almost made her choke up her dinner.  

_ “You’ve got some decisions to make now, Annie,” _ Jim had whispered as he brushed his hand across her shoulders and left as quietly as he’d slipped into her office.

If she had to do this, she at least wanted John to love her again before it happened. The very last time she saw his eyes fixed on her, she wanted them to be filled with love, or at least affection. Not the harsh disgust with which he looked at her now. 

“Look, Mary. I’ve really got to go. Sherlock said it was urgent.” The impatience in John’s voice snapped her back to the present.

“Of course, John. Whatever Sherlock wants.” She could tell he didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice.

As soon as the door shut behind him, the flat felt cold and empty. John took every bit of light in their home with him when he left. The tears she’d been holding back since Jim’s visit trickled quietly down her cheeks.

_ Why couldn’t it be Sherlock instead. Why? _

**********

John furiously paced the living room of 221B.

“It was somewhere she couldn’t have even known  _ existed, _ Sherlock. There’s no way in hell she could have thought to look there on her own.” He tugged at his hair, the same way Sherlock did when he went too long without either a case or a fix.

“All the things she would have had to dig through to get there . . .” he growled, almost to himself. “All the things she saw.” The image of Mary running her manicured hands all over Sherlock’s shirts and looking through their photos supplied itself in his mind, and his vision went  _ red _ . 

“John,” piped Sherlock’s voice from where he was watching quietly with his hands clasped in front of him. “It’s alright. Calm down. We’ll figure out another -,”

John kicked the desk. A few picture frames and books fell over.

“John!” Sherlock swept in and held his arms while he steadied his breath. “Easy. It’s okay.”

He pushed all thoughts of Mary aside and grounded himself in Sherlock’s oceanic eyes. A calm but still frustrated breath escaped his mouth, and he fetched the plastic bag sitting on his chair.

“Yeah,” he mumbled with an angry sniff, willing himself to get over it for the sake of Sherlock’s furniture. “Anyway, while I’m here, I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.” He pulled out the striped pocket magnifier. Sherlock gave a soft gasp, confused but pleased at this diversion.

John watched him take it from his hands, smiling fondly at it. He could practically see the scene playing out in his mind’s eye:

_ One hour remained before their guests would arrive for the Christmas party. Sherlock had initially wanted a quiet night with just the two of them, but John convinced him a party would be nice. They agreed to keep it close. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John’s girlfriend at the time . . .  _

_ John pulled Sherlock aside once he’d finished hanging up the lights. “Oi, Sherlock, could you come here for a second?” _

_ Sherlock strode over, nearly towering over him. John sucked in a breath. He hadn’t particularly dressed up more than his usual posh attire, but he somehow looked even more astoundingly beautiful tonight. Maybe it was the Christmas lights. Maybe it was his black shirt and hair contrasting with his pale skin like the moon against the night sky. Who knew. _

_ He tore his eyes away and pulled a package out. “I, uh . . . got you something. I thought maybe you’d like to open it before everyone comes.” His face reddened slightly as he scratched the back of his head. Sherlock snatched it and tore at the paper indifferently, no doubt thinking this was a giant waste of time. _

_ John’s stomach fluttered in anticipation as he got closer and closer to revealing what was inside. This was stupid, he thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten anything.   _

_ “I was just out, you know,” he rushed to explaining. “There was this nice lady in a booth. She had all these beautiful, handmade little trinkets. And I saw it and . . .” _

_ Sherlock finally opened the box and removed the tissue. The hard lines in his face and furrowed eyebrows softened immediately. _

_ He held up the magnifier, striped like a bee, like it was a frail piece of glass - the final piece of evidence for a case and it could break under his touch. _

_ “I thought, you know, since you like bees . . .” He watched as Sherlock swiped it open and held it up to his eye, testing the glass. Then as he ran his fingers over the hand-carved stripes. “You don’t have to use it. I know you already have one. I just-” _

_ “Thank you.” John looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. Sherlock wasn’t one for declarations of gratitude, verbal or physical. He shifted back and forth on his heels, raising and lowering his hand as if he wanted to hug John but wasn’t sure if he should. He eventually settled for awkwardly placing his hand on his shoulder, looking confused at the gesture himself. _

_ John chuckled fondly, knowing better than anyone what Sherlock meant, but couldn’t express verbally. _

_ He decided to put the poor man out of his misery by glancing pointedly at the empty base of their Christmas tree. “So, is Santa going to come deliver mine later, or . . .” he joked, not really caring if he got a gift or not. _

_ Sherlock stared off for a moment, and then brushed past him mumbling something like “Made you a sock index.” John smiled at the ground, his heart bursting with love for this man, this fragile, endearing man. Right as he pulled himself together, his girlfriend knocked on the front door. _

Sherlock looked up from the magnifier. Every ounce of gratitude was written in his eyes. None needed to be spoken. At last he tore his gaze away and glanced down into the open bag.

“John, you . . . you kept my clothes?”

Feeling momentarily embarrassed, John closed the bag before remembering he’d brought them here to return.

“Er, yeah.” He set all three shirts on Sherlock’s chair. “When I left Baker Street I wanted to take something of you with me. But they’re yours and it’s not right of me to keep them anymore.” He didn’t add that they’d lost their scent, and were therefore now useless to him. Not to mention he couldn’t sleep with them anymore - not with his wife in bed next to him.

“Are you angry?” he asked, when he got nearly no reaction.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock reached into his shirt and pulled out John’s dog tags, letting them fall gracefully against his chest. John gasped softly. He noticed a long time ago that they’d been missing. Since Sherlock’s death, in fact.

Almost in a trance-like state, he walked forward and traced his fingers over the dull metal.  He’d been amazed at how quickly he’d gotten used to not having them around his neck when he “lost" them. He definitely felt their absence now, but found he didn’t mind when seeing them on Sherlock instead, knowing he’d taken them with him.

Suddenly, his chest constricted painfully, and it seemed the walls were closing in around him. The weight of all they’d brushed under the rug, everything that had gone unspoken between them this last year, flooded to the surface.

“Why did you do it,” he whispered, his voice cracking with restraint.

This was something they’d never talked about. Sherlock already explained how he did it, and had apologized. He had mentioned something to do with snipers as well. After that, they’d silently agreed to put it behind them. But that never fully sat right with John. At night, he lay awake wondering why he hadn’t been filled in. Why Sherlock didn’t trust him when in return, he would blindly trust Sherlock with his life any day.

His hands left the tags and gripped his shirt for support. “Why, Sherlock?”

“I . . . I couldn’t. John, you would’ve . . . I couldn’t risk.” He looked up when he heard Sherlock swallow thickly. He could practically see the words in his mouth as he tried to force them out but was unable to. “I couldn’t. Because I . . .”

Sherlock finally met his eyes. They were begging him to understand. To just hear what he was trying to say on his own.

At once, John did. He understood why he couldn’t risk it. Why he couldn’t say it.

“John,” Sherlock whispered unsteadily. “Please.” _Don't make me say it_ , his eyes pleaded.  _ Understand what I can’t say. _

And John did.

His right hand rose to cup his jaw. Then slowly, the left joined on the other side. 

He took a moment to look into Sherlock’s eyes for confirmation before taking this step for the both of them. The step they should’ve taken long ago.

Sherlock seemed short of breath, but his fluttering eyes contained a mix of anxiety and determination.

When they leaned forward at the same time, their noses bumped and Sherlock gasped as if he’d been electrocuted. John stroked once over his cheek. “S’okay,” he whispered, before tilting his head and closing his lips over Sherlock’s.

At once, Sherlock calmed. He released a long breath, and with it, all the tension in his body. John reached up and tangled his fingers in the overgrown curls, swiping his lips over Sherlock’s again.

Sherlock raised and lowered his arms as if he didn’t know what to do with them. At last his hands settled softly on his biceps, like he was afraid to make more contact than that. He stood still, returning the kiss but not doing much else, and allowed John take the lead.

After kissing him for some time, John released his lips, creating a soft sound, and looked up. Sherlock’s eyes were screwed shut, much like they were when he kissed Janine. But at the same time differently. With Janine, he had never wanted to kiss her in the first place. Now, his eyes were closed like he was afraid the scene taking place would disappear if he opened them.

“Hey,” John whispered, stroking his cheek again, coaxing him until he opened his eyes. He looked back and forth between the glassy, pleading orbs, searching for confirmation. “Okay?” 

His quickening breath preceded a stiff nod. John smiled, tilted his head at a sharper angle, and kissed him deeper, releasing his curls to cup the back of his head. One again, the tension all but deflated from Sherlock’s body as he kissed back, much more relaxed this time.

John had imagined this so many times, in the deepest, most buried parts of his mind. What it would be like to finally do this. In his fantasies, it had always been some adrenaline-fueled frenzy. A dam breaking at the end of a case or after a near-death experience. He imagined clothes tearing, teeth nipping, hands wandering.

But this. This slow and soft dance they found themselves in, with John just touching the side of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock closing his eyes and giving as much as he was taking. . . He now couldn’t imagine their first kiss happening any other way. This was so right. So  _ them. _ Every move was so deliberate and relaxed, like they knew they were always meant to be doing this.

Sherlock finally brought his hand up to card through the hair on the back of his head. He tilted his head to the opposite side and began kissing back with a bit more confidence.

Almost at once, a tight, unpleasant feeling wrapped around John’s heart. It spread to his chest, his limbs, up his throat. It took over his body and mind in seconds, until he felt like he was suffocating. Finally, he had to pull away and rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“I can’t.” He drew his hands down onto his chest. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. Beneath his hands he felt Sherlock tense up.

“John?”

“It’s too dangerous. I can’t do this to you.”

“John, what’s-,”

“Mary,” he hissed, hating to bring her name into this moment. “I’m still married to her.” At this, Sherlock dejectedly brushed his hands from his nape down to his arms. 

Yes, he no longer loved Mary, as he didn’t even know who she was anymore. Yes, she had lied to him throughout their whole relationship and tried to kill his best friend.

Yes, lying was wrong. And yes, he was lying to her right now, just by pretending he had forgiven her. But there was a purpose to his deception: to give him and Sherlock more time to incriminate without endangering anyone.

But cheating on her. That was a wrong that had no greater purpose. 

She had wronged him on so many levels and so many different ways, but he was better than that. He wouldn’t stoop to her level. If there was one thing he was, it was loyal. But the truth was, that was only half the problem.

“She shot you once to remove you from my life. If she finds out – no. If she even  _ suspects _ there’s something going on between us. My god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed and lifted John’s left hand and brushed his thumb over his ring. “You really care about this, don’t you?”

“It means nothing to me. Not anymore. But I’m not a cheater, no matter what someone else has done. I can’t, Sherlock. Not yet.” He offered a gentle smile. “But once she’s gone,” he brushed a thumb over his cheek again. “We have all the time in the world to talk and explore this - whatever it is. Okay?”

Sherlock smiled back weakly, grasping his wrist and leaning into the touch. “You and your strong moral principles. It’s what I love about you.” 

John breathed in relief. He smiled and leaned into Sherlock’s neck, allowing long arms to envelop him in warmth.

“Oh, John. You’ll always be a better man than me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Sherlock’s chin rested atop his head as he mumbled, “We’ve waited nearly seven years for each other.”

“Feels more like over a century,” he mumbled back into his skin. He both felt and heard Sherlock chuckle in response.”

“It does. Regardless, I’ll wait as long as I have to for you.”

**********

John shut the door to the flat and kicked his shoes off.

“So what was so urgent?” piped a voice not a second later, making him jump.

“Jesus, Mary.”

Immediately, he felt something was off in the way she was looking at him. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she knew. There was no way. He had fixed up his hair and straightened himself out before coming back home. Could she tell just from the way he was carrying himself? Did Sherlock’s smell linger on him?

But she gave no sign of knowing anything out of the ordinary had happened at Baker Street. She simply stared, waiting for an answer, smiling . . . affectionately? She hadn’t smiled at him like that since their honeymoon.

“Oh just case stuff. You know.”  He undid his top two buttons to get more comfortable as he strode into the kitchen. Suddenly, arms were wrapping around his waist and Mary’s chin was on his shoulder. He stiffened at the contact.

“Hmm . . . what case are you two working on?”

“Um. Just - Mary? What are you doing?” She circled in front of him and hooked a finger in his belt loop. Her lips spread into a cheeky smile as she pulled him back towards their bedroom. He stayed rooted to his spot.

They hadn’t had sex since she shot Sherlock. John thought they’d had an unspoken agreement that their relationship wasn’t healthy enough for it yet. Neither of them had ever initiated it. In fact, they’d hardly done anything more than pretty chaste (and mandatory) kissing.

“Uh, Mary?” He tried to remind her of all this with his eyes.

“Oh, John.” She ran one hand up his chest. “I’ve missed you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper just between them. “I think we need this.”

For a moment, he felt horribly guilty, remembering what he and Sherlock were up to not even an hour ago in 221B’s living room.

“John, you spend so much time away from me.”

_ Oh, no. Did she suspect something? _

“We need to start somewhere or we’ll never heal.”

She lightly tugged on his belt again.

Meanwhile, John’s mind raced. Sherlock had instructed him to go back to her and pretend everything was alright. Did he expect this of him as well? More importantly, would Mary continue buying his act if he refused?

He looked at her and tried his very hardest to see something other than the woman who shot Sherlock. To feel something other than contempt. To feel any spark of attraction he could ride out for the next hour or so.

He imagined her kissing away the trace of Sherlock still on his lips. Wiping away the memory of him with her hands. He thought of himself pretending to like it. He thought of Sherlock dying in the ambulance. Of Mary tearing through the box in his closet to steal something which was rightfully given to him.

He pulled her hands off him, unsure of how much longer he could keep up this charade.

“Not tonight, sorry.”  _ Not ever. _

She smiled sadly in understanding and placed a hand on his face. “You know I love you, right?”

His gut twisted both disgust and crushing guilt. The words meant nothing to him, as she had also said them before she shot Sherlock, and before her identity was revealed. He smiled and nodded. She tugged her robe around her body and retreated to their bedroom, definitely noticing he hadn’t said them back.

As soon as she was out of sight, John collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

Who the hell had he become?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally kissed! 
> 
> Side note: If you want music to go with the kiss, I recommend the soundtrack to Harry and Ginny's kiss from The Half Blood Prince. Just trust me :) That's actually the music that prompted the scene to just pop in my head.
> 
> Btw, my tumblr is @one-thousand-splendid-stars if you want to say hi :) As always, I hope you're enjoying, and comments are kudos are appreciated!


	5. Absolute Trust

Sherlock and John’s elbows bumped as they walked side by side down the crowded street.  John couldn’t help but revel in how effortlessly their steps fell in line, how natural it felt to be out and about in the streets of London with him. Or perhaps their earlier encounter had done a number on his head and left him in a lovestruck wonderland. 

He held a basket of hot chips in his palm, every now and then shoving one into Sherlock’s mouth as he talked.

“We need to figure out what to do without Mary’s flash drive. We can’t get very far without it.”

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about that. I might have to resort asking my brother’s help.” John didn’t miss the resentment in his voice. “But it’ll be refreshing to actually ask for once. Instead of him showing up already knowing what we need because he’s been spying.”

John halted in his tracks.

A flood of rehearsed reassurances rushed out of Sherlock’s mouth almost instantly. “Oh, don’t worry. I destroyed all his cameras awhile back. He knows better than to try that with me again.”  

But every word went straight through both his ears. An idea was forming and he didn’t know how to shut it down. It was mad, he’d probably never pull it off, but what if . . .

“John?” Sherlock called when he didn’t fall back into step with him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Erm, Sherlock. Where exactly did Mycroft hide cameras in the flat?”

“Oh, you know. Inside clocks and curtain rods. Between books on the shelf. Shower heads. Billy’s eye sockets. The usual.”

“Shower – bloody hell, Sherlock!”

“I took them down as soon as I was aware of their presence. If you have an issue, feel free to take it up with my brother. I fully endorse you carrying out any instinct you might have to sock him in the jaw.

“Sherlock.”

“The left side has been broken before so I recommend aiming there.”

John rolled his eyes. It slightly concerned him how quickly he got over his embarrassment of being spied on in the shower. Like it was just another day in the life. In fact, now he wished he’d known so he could flip Mycroft the bird while he wanked.

“Right. So you work on getting ahold of Mycroft. And when I go home I’ll tear through the flat for it one more time in case I missed anything. Tomorrow, we can find a way to -,”

Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him into a narrow alley.

“Sherlock, what -,”

He gently tipped his chin up and kissed him, slow and tender. John smiled and hummed into the contact, pulling him in by his coat collar. This wasn’t exactly how he ever imagined a quick back alley snog would go, but he wasn’t complaining.

Once Sherlock had his fill he released his lips. “Hmm . . . that was nice,” John mumbled.

“It was.” He leaned in for another kiss, but John turned his head, and it landed on his cheek instead.

“It’s not safe,” he said, rearranging Sherlock’s scarf and collar. “I told you we shouldn’t.”

“No one’s looking.”

“There are people walking by.”

“Yes, idiots who won’t notice a thing.”

“I’m a doctor. Somebody I know could see. And you know news like this travels fast.”

“Always so paranoid, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock murmured before planting another kiss atop his head. “Baker Street then?”

**********

John lay atop of Sherlock on their couch, his hands fisting into his curls while he snogged him fervently. Sherlock lifted his knee between his legs, giving him something to subtly rut against.

They remained comfortably nestled in the privacy of their living room with the only light coming from a single lamp by the desk.  The soft darkness added a comforting layer of concealment and discretion.

Sherlock’s hands roamed John’s muscled back and hair as they kissed breathlessly. 

“John,” Sherlock warned when John began mouthing down his long, exposed neck. He placed his hand on his shoulder, not quite pushing. “John,” he repeated with more conviction.

“I know,” he breathed. He stopped and burrowed his forehead onto Sherlock’s clavicle. “I know.”

If they didn’t stop now, they wouldn’t stop at all. He kept his face hidden in the comfort of Sherlock’s shoulder as the unwelcome guilt once again pooled in his gut.

His fierce loyalty had always been something he’d prided himself on. Back in uni and before enlisting, he’d had several girlfriends. Although none were that serious, he made sure they knew he wouldn’t take them for granted. He never so much as kissed another girl on the cheek while in a relationship. Then in the army, he met James Sholto. Even though they never took that last step, the commitment they had towards one another was like that of a relationship. He would’ve died for him without a second’s hesitation.

The next significant person in his life after that was Sherlock. And damn, did he give him everything. He chased after him without question, jumped in front of cars for him, killed for him. He would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth showering him with endless chants of “Amazing!” and “Brilliant!” had he not faked his death.

What was different about him now? It didn’t matter if he didn’t love Mary. It didn’t matter that their marriage was as good as over, and that he was secretly plotting to get her behind bars. They were still together, and who the hell was he if he wasn’t loyal? If he lost his moral compass?

Sherlock soothingly ran his hand up and down his back, as if he knew exactly where his thoughts were.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

A scratchy croak was the only affirmation he could provide. He didn’t trust his voice to be any louder. After another minute of letting Sherlock just hold him while he regained control of his voice, he spoke up properly.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Sherlock.” The hand rubbing his back slowed to a stop. “I’m so unhappy. I know I agreed to this. I know it’s what we have to do to stop Mary, but . . .” He took a shaky breath. “Every day I go home and . . . I just can’t. I know if I left her I’d mess up everything we’ve planned, and I’m being entirely selfish right now, but -,”

“You’re not selfish.”

John lifted his head from his shoulder. “What?”

“Sit up.” Sherlock practically manhandled him into a sitting position next to him on the couch. “Look at me. You’re not selfish. You’re the most selfless person I know. You’re putting off our relationship to keep me safe and to remain loyal to your wife. You agreed to stay married to a woman you hate so we can take her down with minimal risk. Would a selfish person do that?”

John lowered his head.

“When we were discussing possible courses of action after I was shot, you were willing to stay married to her indefinitely for the sake of the child. Would a selfish person offer to do that?”

He shook his head.

“You’re not selfish,” he emphasized. “You try to save everyone. You try to make everyone happy, even at the expense of your own well-being.”

John blinked back tears in his eyes, much like he had when Sherlock praised him endlessly at his wedding. God, he was so gone on him.

“I’m miserable, Sherlock. I just want to come home and be with you.”

Sherlock lifted his chin with a curled finger. “You will. Because not only are you a selfless hero in my eyes. You’re also stupidly brave and strong. I wouldn’t have asked this of you if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

He nodded. He could do this. For Sherlock. Otherwise Mary would never pay consequences for what she did. He squared up and lifted his jaw in defiance of his weakness.

“There he is.” Sherlock grinned at his half-assed soldier stance. “I need you to trust me, John. I do have a plan for what to do once we get help from Mycroft. It won’t be much longer. But I need you to put your absolute trust in me, okay?”

He nodded again and placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Okay. Absolute trust.”

 

**********

That night, Mary leaned over John’s sleeping body. He was curled on his side with his back towards her, his form gently rising and falling.

Carefully reaching over him, she plucked his phone from his nightstand. His lock screen was a picture of Sherlock wearing that ridiculous deerstalker with a pained expression on his face. She rolled her eyes and laid back down, feeling bitter like she did every time she saw it. 

_ Heaven forbid he have, oh I don’t know, a picture of his sodding wife as his background. _

She unlocked it using the password he hadn’t changed since she knew him (7437) and opened his texts with Sherlock.

 

**Are you okay? –SH**

 

_ No _

 

**I’m sorry. I put you in this position –SH**

 

_ No you didn’t. We agreed to this together. _

_ I miss you _

 

**It’s only been a few hours since you left –SH**

 

_ A few hours too long _

 

**:) –SH**

**I miss you too –SH**

 

_ When can I see you again? I think Mary knows we don’t have a real case right now _

 

**Can’t you just come for a visit? Since we’re friends? –SH**

 

_ Don’t think she’d like that _

 

**Can I come see you? -SH**

 

_ Wouldn’t like that either. _

_ Why all this impatience? We can handle a day or two without seeing each other _

 

**You’re the one missing me after two hours ;) –SH**

 

_ Oh, so you’re using the winky face now? ;) _

 

**Learned from the best ;) –SH**

 

_ Lol. _

_ Goodnight Sherlock _

 

**Goodnight, John. I’ll see you soon –SH**

 

_ :) _

 

That was from earlier today. Pretty much right after John had gotten home. She scrolled up a bit further.

 

_ Want to grab fish and chips for lunch? _

 

**I ate yesterday. –SH**

 

_ >:( _

_ We’re getting chips. Meet me in twenty _

 

**Where’s Mary right now? –SH**

 

_ Work _

 

**Did you look for it? –SH**

 

_ Yeah. Can’t find it. We’ll talk about it at lunch, okay? _

 

**Yes. –SH**

**And John? –SH**

 

_ Yeah? _

 

**Nothing –SH**

**I look forward to it. –SH**

 

_ :) _

_ Me too. I’ll see you _

 

**See you –SH**

 

It was nothing too incriminating, although she didn’t understand some of it. Yet her stomach still clenched in possessive jealousy. Sherlock clearly didn’t know the implications of a winky face and she didn’t like that John didn’t care to correct him. Or that he had been lying to her about working on a case.

She also didn’t like the vibe she was getting that there was something else going on between them. She’d read John’s texts to Sherlock before. Multiple times throughout their relationship actually. It had almost become a semi-nightly routine. She was familiar with how they talked to each other. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something . . . different about these messages.

The jealousy heightened and swirled in her chest. She told him very clearly, he could go do whatever Sherlock needed him to do. Run after him like a good little pet, but then he was to come home to her. To his  _ wife _ for god’s sake. 

She knew she messed up big time. She had been so sloppy. If only she could go back and do it all again . . . She’d ensure Sherlock died and that she didn’t get caught. But reality was that she did get caught, and was now paying for it. John was completely neglecting her.

Once John’s phone was safely and quietly returned to his nightstand, she laid back. It was time to acknowledge what she’d known for a long time: John would always choose Sherlock. That had always been the nature of things: before he returned, during their engagement, and still now, several months into marriage.

Damn Sherlock. Damn him to hell. He wasn’t even supposed to be alive, let alone alive and stealing her husband. And he damn well shouldn’t have survived that bullet she put in his chest. She still had yet to figure out how he did. That was a kill shot through and through.

Mary now had a choice to make. Jim or John. Annie or Mary. Who did she want and who did she want to be. Well, she knew one thing. She wanted someone who wanted her back. Someone who would also choose her, given the choice.

She loved John so much. And she’d miss him dearly. But if she couldn’t have 100% of him, then, well . . .

_ “You’ve got some decisions to make now, Annie.” _

Mary closed her eyes, fully at peace. Her decision was made. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary reading John's texts was inspired by that scene where she reads his blog despite his requests that she doesn't. It said a lot to me about their domestic life.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you can!


	6. Running Away

Mary sat at the corner of the bar lazily sipping her drink. People filtered in and out. The crowd buzzed with lazy, end-of-the-week energy.

At last her phone pinged with the text she’d been waiting for, and she slipped outside to the back of the pub. Waiting silently in the shadows was Jim, wearing a navy blue suit and a knowing grin on his face.

“Well?” he asked, pushing off the wall as she approached him.

“I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll help you complete your mission.” She paused and added quietly, “I’ll do what you asked of me.”

Jim leaned forward into her space, his eyes seemingly staring right through her and directly into her at the same time. “Say it,” he whispered through his teeth. “So I know you’re in this.”

Mary swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin in defiance.

“I’ll kill John Watson.”

 

**********

John allowed Sherlock to press him back into the dark corner of their living room, peppering his mouth with kisses like he was the sweetest treat he’d ever had. He cupped his head and tenderly rubbed circles in his curls with his thumb.

They devoured each other’s lips until they had to break apart for breath. After a few short, breathless pants, they suctioned on again, moaning almost silently into each other’s mouths.

*********

Jim’s mischievous grin spread slowly across his face. Pride lit up his eyes with that familiar insanity she loved so much. “I knew you’d come around.”

“No you didn’t.” Mary looked down and away. He didn’t know the makings of her home life with John, or how she felt about him. He didn’t know why she was doing this. It was much more personal for her than it was for him.

“So what’s going to happen then?” she asked. “After the deed is done.”

“Then you and I will be done here. We’ll move onto something else like we always did when we got bored. And we’ll be Jim and Annie once again.”

“We’ll run away?”

He peered down at her knowingly. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Why else would you have kept your guns and disguises if you really believed I was dead? Whether you realized it or not, you’ve been ready to up and run away from your life since you got married. You’ve never been truly happy here.”

He was right. She was so desperately bored here. She wasn’t cut out for the domestic life any more than John was. John needed Sherlock, and she needed Jim. But there was one thing about their plan that didn’t sit right with her.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Jim asked softly.

With a hot flash of anger, Mary remembered the texts she saw last night. She remembered that no matter what she did, Sherlock would always have possession of John over her. Because of him, she had no chance of winning him back and he would still hate her in those last moments before he died. 

“Let me take care of Sherlock, too.” He smiled pitifully at her request. “Jim, please. I have to. I  _ need _ to. Let me try again.”

**********

 

Sherlock tucked his face into John’s neck. John moaned desperately and spun them around so Sherlock’s back was against the wall. He pressed against him and kissed him deeply. Sherlock tore his cardigan down his arms and discarded it onto the floor.

********** 

 

“Oh, Annie dear,” Jim crooned, twirling one of her blonde curls in his finger. “Sherlock is mine to finish. You knew this from the start.”

Mary lowered her eyes in disappointment and reluctant understanding.

“But know this. After you kill the doctor, you will have killed Sherlock already by extension. That’s why your job is so important. That's why I need you.”

It didn’t exactly make her feel better, but it was something. Maybe she could get through this by picturing Sherlock’s face over her husband’s when the moment came.

********** 

 

When Sherlock brought his hands back up to fiddle with his buttons, John gently stopped his wrists.

He halted his actions immediately and looked down at the distraught man in front of him. John hung his head low, the apology written in his slumped shoulders. That was unacceptable. He had absolutely nothing to be sorry for.

“John,” he said quietly into the darkness. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” came his shaky reply. He was barely holding it together.

“You’re just trying to do the right thing.”

“What is ‘right?’,” he whispered harshly.

After a pointed pause, Sherlock whispered back,“I don’t know.”

At that, John lifted his head and pulled himself together. “I should go home,” he mumbled, stroking a knuckle down Sherlock’s cheek. “There’s something I need to do.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. With one last desperately longing look at him, John left.

 

********** 

“Something still bothering you, Annie?”

Mary shuffled her feet uncomfortably. She didn’t know how to bring this up, but she had to. If she didn’t get closure now, her lingering resentment of Jim would affect her work, and by extension their relationship. She had to clear the air now, if they really were going to be a team again.

“Why didn’t you ever contact me?”

Something shifted in Jim’s expression. Perhaps it was regret, sorrow. Or maybe pity.

“You were gone for nearly three years, Jim!” Her voice cracked on his name. “After Sherlock’s death I thought you were really gone too. I figured if you were out there, you’d at least let me know.” She looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “But you didn’t.”

Jim sighed and lifted her chin. “Annie, my dear, I wanted to. But I needed you to be your best here. As Mary Morstan. I couldn’t have you half playing a role while waiting around for me to return, could I?”

She shook her head, not believing him. “Jim, you announced to all of England that you were alive before you came to me. You could have come to my office before then. Didn’t I at least deserve that much? Did I really mean so little to you?”

“You know that Sherlock never contacted John while he was gone either. He did that because he cared, not because he didn’t. I simply took the same necessary precautions for my number two.”

She smiled tenderly.

 

**********

John propped step stool in front of the bookshelf and lifted himself onto it. He fiddled for an empty space between the books and placed the first hidden camera there, hoping Mary wouldn’t need the Oxford Dictionary anytime in the next few days.

He placed another camera in the pot plant on the kitchen counter.

Another on Mary’s desk, hidden among the clutter.

Two more in their bedroom curtain rods.

And one more in the grandfather clock.

Finally, he opened his laptop to check his work. He had an excellent view panning the whole living room from the bookshelf. And good another angle from Mary’s desk. The bedroom view needed a bit of adjusting. The kitchen was fine, as was the front entrance of their flat.

His heart hammered in his chest as he began to doubt for the hundredth time that he could pull this off. All it took was Mary finding one camera, and he was done.

He steadied himself. It was only for a few days at most. Just until he knew where Mary kept her flash drive so he could take it, save himself a copy, and return it to her before she knew it was missing. Then the cameras were gone. He could do this.

He took a deep breath, and pressed record.

**********

Jim smiled back at Mary. “Anything else? Do I have my Annie back now?”

She nodded. “Just one thing. I need you to return your autopsy files to the lab at Bart’s. Not now. I’ll tell you when.”

“Consider it done.” She smiled.

“Go on then. You’ve got some work to get started on.”

As she turned to leave, he caught her arm.

“And Annie?” He leaned into her space once more. “I mean it. Sherlock is mine.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry super short chapter! But next one will make up for it I promise :) If you've been following along with the soundtrack titles the chapters are named after, you probably know what's coming.
> 
> Also, head's up. Next chapter there will be a rating change.   
> Thanks and I hope to hear your feedback!


	7. Cheating

Sherlock heard John’s muffled voice calling him from the foyer. He would recognize those footsteps pounding heavily up the stairs any day.

“Sherlock?” he called, bursting into the living room.

“In the hall.” He had just come out the bathroom when he heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door for him.

“Sherlock, I’ve got it!” John proclaimed breathlessly, joining him in the division between the kitchen and the hall. A proud grin stretched across his whole face as he held up a flash drive in between them.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Um, John? Hate to break it to you, but that’s not actually Mary’s flash drive.”

“No, but I copied everything onto this one and returned hers so she wouldn’t suspect anything.” 

Once again, that adorable, proud smile beamed up at him. Sherlock stared back in wonder at how he possibly could’ve gotten so lucky to have this amazing miracle of a man in his life.

John must have taken his astonished silence to mean he was stunned, because he began explaining hurriedly how he did it.

“I got the idea after you told me about Mycroft bugging 221B. I picked up some cameras and hid them around the flat. Then I just waited to see where Mary kept her drive so I could take it and make a copy.”

He paused to breathe, as he seemed to have given his explanation all in one breath. Sherlock’s heart tugged at how proud he looked to be the one explaining something to him for once.

“She keeps it strapped to her thigh during the day. Inside her trousers. No wonder I couldn’t find it. But at night, it must be uncomfortable, so she puts it in her nightstand drawer. That’s what the camera caught. When I went to look for it after she fell asleep, I fished all around but couldn’t find it. Turns out there’s a little hidden compartment on the side. That’s where it was.”

He paused for another deep breath.

“I suppose I could have gotten Mycroft to do it. But to be honest, I didn’t entirely trust your brother not to continue spying on us afterwards. So I just did it myself and took the cameras down once I got this.”

Another heaving breath and proud smile.

“So yeah. Now we’ve got the drive and we can use it to incriminate her.”

John beamed up at him expectantly once more, but Sherlock was lost for words. All he could do was stare down at the clever, clever man before him, his eyes sparkling in wonder and his jaw hanging slightly open in shock. John apparently took his silence as an invitation to continue blathering.

“Well, I know you wanted to ask your brother for help, but this was faster. What’s important is that we’ve got it now. And we -,”

Sherlock plucked the flash drive out of his fingers and tossed it somewhere onto the kitchen table. Without words, he pulled John’s face forward into an engulfing kiss.

John immediately shut up, thank god, and kissed back, humming and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Sherlock poured every ounce of gratitude, amazement, and all-consuming love he had for him into his kiss.

They began clumsily stumbling down the hall. When John’s back hit his bedroom door, he reached down without hesitation and opened it. They collapsed inside and continued towards the middle of his floor.

Sherlock kissed him full on the mouth.  _ You’re amazing. _

Beside his nose.  _ Fantastic. _

Cheek.  _ Brilliant. _

John pulled his face back for a proper kiss and wove his fingers into his curls. At last their mutual rain of kisses slowed down. With one last lingering peck on the lips, they pulled back and raised their gazes to each other’s eyes.

Sherlock’s stomach fluttered with anticipation. They had never brought their activities to his bedroom before.

John had always been someone he could reliably read. He knew him inside and out. He knew what time he went to sleep and woke up. He knew what television programs and traffic situations made him grumpy. He knew how to tell what kind of day he had by how long he took in the shower. He knew what it meant when he quirked his eyebrows or pursed his lips. What each line in his forehead meant and what his breathing patterns said about his mood.

But right now, no matter how long he stared at John’s rosy, flushed face, tousled hair, and deep, ocean blue eyes, he could not read him. Instead, he decided to take a leap of faith.

Very slowly, Sherlock leaned back in to kiss him, slowly and tenderly. John kissed back (a good sign), but he sensed a slight hesitation at the obvious shift in the mood. This was no longer a heated frenzy. Everything they were doing now was completely deliberate. He continued on, warming him up until he returned it with loose comfort.

It was then that he very slowly, very cautiously brought his hands up to the top button of John’s shirt.

John flinched slightly but didn’t pull back. Sherlock waited a moment. When no protest arose, he unbuttoned the top few. And then a few more. When at last his shirt was fully opened, he pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms, staring straight into John’s eyes for any sign of refusal.

The sound of the cloth hitting the floor was louder than it should have been. Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his own shirt (the purple one that had been returned to him), maintaining his careful watch on John.

John seemed entranced by his fingers, following them down the trail of his buttons, waiting eagerly to lay eyes on his bare skin. When at last Sherlock moved to shrug it off, his arms darted forward to help him.

It joined John’s shirt on the floor, and he settled his hands on his chest before looking back up into his eyes. Sherlock cautiously leaned forward and kissed him again, cupping the side of his head.

When this kiss was slowly returned, he pushed forward. The back of John’s knees hit the bed, and he gently lowered him onto it. Once they were comfortably lying down, Sherlock braced over him and pecked tiny, gentle kisses on his waiting lips.

John sighed in appreciation at his ministrations. He lightly dragged his lips along his jaw and kissed just underneath it at the corner. This earned him another sigh. John rolled his head to the side, offering him more space. Please at the invitation, he dipped his head and continued raining soft kisses along his neck. When he reached the hollow of his throat, he heard a shuddering intake of breath.

His lifted his face. John’s eyes were screwed shut, and he was biting hard into his lip. His head was still rolled to the side, and his breath was coming in short pants.

“John, open your eyes.” He did, but pointedly did not make eye contact. His glassy eyes were full of guilt and shame, but at the same time they held a kind of fierce determination. Once again, Sherlock found himself unable to read what this meant, so he leaned forward and placed his mouth on his ear.

“If you don’t want this, tell me to stop,” he murmured lowly. “At any point.” He lingered there for a moment, waiting for a response, a twitch, a noise, anything that could be taken as a refusal. When none came, he placed a sensual kiss right under his ear. John’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move otherwise.

So he continued down his neck once again, creating soft, breathy noises as he descended towards his chest. His hand caressed his torso as he went, feeling the tense muscles and soft patches of hair. He buried his face in his sternum and breathed in his thick, masculine scent before dragging his hands and wet lips down to his trousers.

He stopped and looked up. John’s head was still turned to the side. His eyes were screwed shut once again, and he was biting his fist.

Sherlock had made it easy for him before, allowing him to choose silence as consent, but he was going to need more now.

“John?” he asked.

No response except for a heaving chest. Concern and worry began to bubble in his chest that he had done something not good.

“John?” he asked again. “I’m going to need you to tell me yes.”

John opened his eyes. The determination was still there, as well as a flood of other emotions Sherlock couldn’t decipher. Without releasing his fist from his teeth, he nodded yes. Slowly, but certainly.

As soon as Sherlock’s fingers touched his belt, John reached over and flicked the lamp off. It was early evening, so it only darkened the room a bit. But Sherlock understood. He had noticed it in their encounters before. The private veil of darkness created the illusion of secrecy and concealment. That seemed to make things easier for John, so he allowed it, even though he’d much rather see him in full light.

He opened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. The sound of his fly being unzipped filled the room with heavy suggestion. He shimmied them down, along with his pants, thankful when John lifted his hips to help him. When they were discarded on the floor, he braced himself over his hips.

He lifted one knee so that John's foot was planted on the bed, and kissed the inside of his thigh. John whined, so he did it again, climbing higher this time. He dragged his lips all around his thigh and hip, worshipping his skin, licking and smelling and breathing him in.

When a bead of precum leaked down his fully erect cock, Sherlock took mercy on him. He pressed his lips to the tip in a wet, sensual kiss. John’s hips nearly jerked off the bed. He did it again on the underside, and continued planting hard kisses down his cock. When he reached the base, he nuzzled his face into his musk, nearly overcome with lust.

Above him, John’s hand was flying between the sheets and hovering above Sherlock’s head, like he didn’t know what to do with it, but needed to do something. Sherlock licked up the underside of his cock and brought his lips together in a wet, noisy kiss at the tip.

John made the most beautiful sound at that, so he did it again. And again. Until his hips were practically thrashing on their own.

At last, he spread his thighs just a bit more, and sucked him down. John’s entire body arched off the bed as he bobbed his head, slurping and sucking vigorously.

A hand fisted into his curls, not pushing or coercing, just holding. Anchoring himself. Sherlock sucked and laved his tongue under his shaft, grunting softly into his efforts. He intended to take his time with this. Rile John up to the point of orgasm and then slow down and repeat until he was driven mad. He enjoyed his soft whines, his breathless whimpers, his legs jerking and kicking on either side of his head. He enjoyed being able to worship him, to explore and taste his most intimate areas.

Finally, when John seemed on the verge of screaming, he held his hips down and sucked hard until he came.

He rested his head on his thigh, caressing his hip as he listened to John catch his breath. After a minute he crawled back up, only for his chest to freeze in horror at what he saw.

John’s face was tear stricken. His breath hiccupped softly from behind the hand he held over his mouth.

He didn’t know what to do. He thought he had wanted this. He had made sure to get consent. Oh, god, oh god . . .

“John,” he croaked. “John, I’m so . . .” He cautiously extended his hand, hovering over his face like he was unsure it was okay to touch. Right before it made contact, John interrupted his concerns by pulling his face down for a bruising kiss.

His hands hands wandered down and pulled his still-clothed hips down onto his naked cock, grinding up into them. Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and gasped.

John took the opportunity to flip them and settle his weight on top of him, all while continuing to thrust and rub against him.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to reach full hardness. John planted his forearms close on either side of his shoulders and dropped his head into his neck while he rutted hard and fast against him.

Sherlock pretended not to notice the wetness appearing on his shoulder where John’s face was. He had thought it would be easier for him if he took a passive role in their encounter, so he had taken the lead initially. But as always, John surprised him. He thrust up into him, wrapping his arms around his back as he came. 

When it was over, John remained on top of him, his breath shuddering. Sherlock was unsure what to do, and settled for stroking a comforting hand up his back. He wasn't sure if John wanted to talk, get out of bed, or go home. He seemed content with simply laying on his chest with his face hidden, so he stayed silent. He was more than okay with putting off whatever conversation needed to be had until later. Before long, they both drifted off to the soft lull of the fan.

**********

Mary lowered the glass pane from the window and stepped in. Disarming the security system had been disappointingly simple. She had been looking forward to a challenge after all these months with no action in her life.

She had been to this art museum once before, long ago. She zipped through the halls, not worrying about the disabled cameras in every corner, until she reached her first destination.

_ Stormy Sea _ , painted in 1629. None of the pieces here were covered in glass, which made her job much easier. She lifted the painting off the hooks and lowered it to the ground, revealing a blank white space on the wall.

Her mission was to kill John in a way that couldn’t be traced back to her immediately. She couldn’t do it in their flat while he was asleep – the quickest and most painless way. It would be quite obvious to law enforcement that she had done it, even if she stayed back to play the role of a mourning wife for a while. 

Sherlock also had to know that John’s death was Moriarty’s doing, at least indirectly. But not right away. He couldn’t come running and ruin everything. She had to be able to get Sherlock out of the way, pull the trigger, and flee before him or the police could trace her.

So after running through multiple plans and scenarios, she decided to play them. Just like she had when she needed them to go on a case together and be out of her hair for a bit. She had seen a few “red-flag” names on John’s guest list for the wedding. Names of people whose relatives or friends she’d killed. She knew there was no way they would know who she was, but she could never be too cautious. Once John and Sherlock had left for a case she set them up for, she slipped a gun and bullet proof vest into the package with her dress, and memorized the room numbers of every guest.

Mary took down five more paintings all around the museum. On each blank space on the wall, she left a little message for Sherlock in invisible ink. If there’s one thing she learned over the years, it’s that if you want to keep Sherlock Holmes distracted, give him a puzzle and watch him dance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I actually wrote this whole fic because the cheating scene popped into my head (and the idea of rewriting S4 was something I was toying with at the time) so I combined them and here we are!! 
> 
> I hope you're not _too_ disappointed with John (but let's be real. We all thought 'Cheating' on the soundtrack meant either this or a reveal that the baby wasn't John's). Regardless, I'd love to hear all your thoughts! Until next time ;)


	8. Sharks

Turning the key in the lock created a much louder ‘click’ than it usually did. As quietly as he could, John pushed inside his flat, sheepishly closing the door behind him.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with Sherlock after their rather heated encounter. And now he could only pray that Mary was already asleep and blissfully unaware of the ungodly hour at which her husband was returning home.

Those hopes were evaporated when a lamp switched on behind him.

“Evening John. Or should I say ‘morning?’”

_ Shit.  _ He braced himself and turned to face his wife. Her hair was mussed from the bed, her grey robe was pulled tight around her body, held in place with her crossed arms.

“Are you aware of what time it it?”

“Sorry. Just . . . lost track of time.”

“Oh, until 3 in the morning?”

He rubbed the back of his head, unsure of what to say.

“And you’ve been at Baker Street all this time, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

“And what in god’s name have you been doing with Sherlock since noon?”

“Just, you know, case stuff. This and that.”

“Case stuff? And what case are you working on exactly?”

John never liked being interrogated by her. It demonstrated a total lack of trust, which irritated him since he was the one with every right and reason to not trust her. Not the other way around. But at this particular moment, he knew he deserved every word of it.

“Look, Mary. I just-,”

“Come here.” He looked at her in question. “Just come here, John,” she repeated with annoyance.

He cautiously approached her, and she ran her hands down his chest, her eyes scanning his figure. “Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. “I know you don’t have a case.”

John’s throat went dry. “How?” he croaked out.

“Your texts to him are very telling.”

“My texts?” He had never felt so alarmed and relieved at the exact same time. Alarm that she had read through his messages, and relief that he had taken the precaution to not put anything too incriminating in there. “God, Mary!” He pushed away from her. “Can I not have a single shred of privacy around you?”

“That depends, John. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you deserve it?”

He glared at her. He could feel himself reaching the point where he would no longer think about the words coming out of his mouth before said them.

“I will if you can look me in the eye and tell me you deserve for me to still be here.” As soon as he spoke, he wished he could reverse time and shove the harsh statement back down his throat.

Mary uncrossed her arms and stared at him, wounded.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did.” She shook her head and looked him up and down once more. “So this is what you think of me.” She pulled her robe around herself once more and turned to retreat to their bedroom.

“Mary,” he called after her with little conviction.  _ Shit. _

He collapsed into a kitchen chair and rubbed his face. This was not the plan. This was the exact opposite of the plan. He had one job and that was to pretend he had forgiven Mary. Not only that, but he had just bloody cheated on his wife and came home to tell her she didn’t deserve him. Real nice.

A voice in his head reminded him that they were not the same. Sleeping with the man he loved while keeping an act up in a dead marriage was not on the same level as being an ex-assassin, lying about your whole identity, and shooting your husband’s best friend. She was right. He had meant every word of what he said, but that didn’t mean he had to say it to her in that way. Nothing he told himself did anything to appease the all-consuming guilt and self-loathing boiling in the pit of his stomach.  

 

**********

Sherlock twiddled the UV flashlight he’d received anonymously in the mail. No note, no address. Just the light. Before could even begin pondering what it meant, loud banging on the front door interrupted his thoughts.

“What?” he called irritably. Lestrade entered.

“Sherlock. You busy?”

“Depends. What boring case are you incapable of solving today?”

Lestrade ignored his quip. “There’s been a break-in at the art museum. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Can’t find it.”

“You never lose your things.”

“Unimportant. Your team is so incompetent they cannot solve a petty theft on their own? Given the assistance of a high-quality security system?”

“There was no theft. Nothing at all was taken. But six paintings were taken down and placed on the floor below their spots on the wall. That’s it.”

“Hm.”

“And the cameras were all disabled during the time of the break-in. It looks suspicious but we can’t make anything of it.”

“Of course not.”

Lestrade ignored him again. “Will you come take a look?”

Sherlock looked down at the UV light in his hand and instantly felt this case was somehow meant for him. A combination of thrill and fear rippled through his body. Nobody had personally designed a case for him since Moriarty. He began to wonder if this was somehow his way of greeting Sherlock upon his return.

“I’ll do it,” he decided.

**********

Sharks drifted ominously behind Mary in their tall, glass tank. Their shadows cast an eerie dark shade over the wavy, blue reflections of the water on the carpet.

She lifted her assault rifle out of her black bag and loaded it up. It felt good to have it in her hands again. It had been ages since she’d gotten to use it. She figured she could take her mask off for now. The cameras were disabled once again (a skill she had become somewhat of an expert at) and the police wouldn’t be here for some time.

She placed a hand over her stomach. Her child would grow up without a father because of her. She still didn’t have a plan for what do with the baby after she was born. Perhaps, if all this was happening after her birth, she could leave her with Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson or Molly. But she was planning on fleeing with Jim as soon as the trigger was pulled. She wondered briefly if he would raise the baby with her. The thought was almost amusing. But what other choice did she have? Would she damn her daughter to the same life in an orphanage she’d grown up with?

One step at a time, she reminded herself. First, she had a mission to complete.

She fished Sherlock’s phone out of her pocket. She’d nicked it out of his coat the other day at Baker Street when she came around for a “visit.” She knew how to hack into phones but luckily didn’t have to. His password was as predictable as her husband’s (5646).

She opened his messages with John and typed the words she once heard him speak.

 

**********

 

John nearly ran into Sherlock and Greg in the doorway of Baker Street.

“Er, going somewhere?”

“John, thank goodness. Your timing is impeccable. Lestrade just came with a new case. I need to head to the art museum right now.”

“Okay. Do you want me to come along? We can grab a cab.”

“No.” John raised his eyebrow in question. “I mean yes. Get a cab. But I need you to go to Bart’s.”

“Why?”

Greg interjected. “Molly texted me just as we were getting ready to leave. She said someone returned Moriarty’s autopsy documents to his file.”

“What? When?”

“Just now apparently,” Sherlock continued. “She needs someone to come over there asap, but we’re on our way to the museum. I need you to-,”

“On it,” he said, already hailing the approaching cab. “Keep me posted, you two.” He climbed into the back seat. “St. Bart’s,” he told the driver.

Five minutes later, they were one block away from Bart’s when John’s phone pinged in his pocket with a text from Sherlock.

He fished it out, and his blood ran cold at what he saw. His heart pounded in his ears as he stared at the words so rarely used between them, but never ignored:

 

**Vatican Cameos –SH**


	9. Never a Field Agent

Sherlock and Lestrade approached the first painting,  _ Stormy Sea.  _ It had been taken down from its place on the wall and propped on the floor just at their feet. In its previous place was a blank, white rectangle clearly outlining its spot, with the aged and yellowed wall surrounding it.

Sherlock felt around the rectangle, knocking a few time to see if anything had been hidden behind it. He lifted the canvas from the floor and sniffed along its frame. Lestrade stopped him from darting his tongue out to taste. When he found nothing, he concluded the light he had received in the mail was indeed meant for this case. And therefore, the case was meant for him.

Sherlock fished the UV flashlight out of his pocket and told Lestrade to kill the lights. He motioned to one of the security guards, and darkness surrounded them in an instant. He switched the flashlight on, and the pale blue light illuminated the white square.

The letter ‘M’ glowed bright and blazing in front of their eyes.

A million possibilities raced through Sherlock’s mind, the most obvious being that it was Moriarty’s initial. The second being that it was also Mary’s, although for a false name. He crouched down and inspected the frame again, felt the canvas, patted the surrounding wall, and shone the light everywhere. When he discovered nothing else, he rose back up.

“Take me to the next one.”

**********

John stared at the words on his screen, blood pounding deafeningly in his ears. It took a frighteningly long moment for him to unfreeze his limbs and exit out of his texts.

He dialed Sherlock, bouncing his leg as he sat through the longest series of ringing in his life. The call went to his voicemail box, which of course was full.

“Shit,” he breathed. Perhaps in the midst of whatever was happening to him, Sherlock didn’t have access to his phone anymore.

He looked up the location of his phone and sighed in relief when it worked. Sometimes Sherlock turned the location feature off to avoid being tracked by their enemies, making it incredibly difficult to find him when they got separated.

He was at the aquarium. 

John cocked his head in surprise. He thought Sherlock and Greg were headed to the art museum for the new case. He wondered if perhaps they were abducted along the way, or the case called for them to change locations. Either way, he was at the aquarium and in need of his help, and there would be time for questions later if they got out of whatever this was alive.

He plugged the location into his GPS and shouted urgently at the cabbie to turn around.

“Where to?” he asked.

“The aquarium.” He looked back down at his screen, watching the little blue arrow move painstakingly slowly towards the red dot indicating Sherlock’s location.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered as his phone beeped, sounding unnervingly like a heart monitor. 

********** 

 

Jim Moriarty picked up on the first ring.

“And?”

“Everything is in place. Be ready to leave in thirty minutes.” Mary could hear him smiling proudly through the phone.

“Oh, Annie, you’re so much cleverer than my other field agents.”

She smirked. “That’s because I’m so much more than an agent.”

“That’s right. Perhaps we should discuss a higher position for you once all this is over.”

“Higher than your number two?”

“We’ll see.”

“Well I’ve damn well earned it.”

He chuckled into the phone. “I’ll be ready in half an hour.”

 

**********

Sherlock and Lestrade headed towards the last painting.

So far each missing painting’s spot on the wall had revealed a different letter under the UV light.

_ The Great Wave off Kanagawa _ had the letter ‘I.’ Both  _ Storm on the Sea of Galilee _ and  _ The Ninth Wave  _ had ‘S.’ And  _ Stormy Sea in Etretat _ had another ‘M.’

M I S S M.

It didn’t take a consulting detective to extrapolate what the last letter would be, but he still had to check. He figured there would be one last clue at their final destination telling him what to do next.

As they weaved through the halls paying no mind to the glorious displays of artistic genius around them, Sherlock wondered why Moriarty would set this up for him. There was no murder, no theft. Nothing to be solved. No one was in danger. Perhaps it was just a teasing display, much like breaking into the bank and Buckingham Palace. He just wanted to show that he could. A show of dominance and power. That's all it was.

They reached the last painting:  _ Watson and the Shark _ . By John Singleton Copley, 1778.

They switched the lights off, surrounding themselves in darkness once more. Sherlock lifted the UV light revealing the letter ‘E,’ just as he’d expected, but nothing else. He frowned and crouched to inspect the painting on the ground and the surrounding area. There was nothing else differentiating this exhibit the rest of the removed paintings. No new smells or marks or messages in invisible ink. 

Lestrade once again stopped him from checking for taste.  “Odd name, yeah?” he piped up as he watched Sherlock work. “Watson and the Shark. You think that was on purpose?”

Sherlock repeated the name to himself from his spot on the ground, hovering over the framed canvas. His eyes scrutinized the glassy, green ripples in the water, the frantic people in the boats, the fleet of ships in the background. The epiphany washed over him like wave, ironically.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Every painting so far had consistently had one running theme: water. Whether it was a wave, or a calm sea, or a storm, every painting depicted the ocean somehow. He looked down at the canvas in front of him again.

What was different about this one was that it included a shark and humans. The irony in the name was not lost on him, but what he found more interesting was the history of this particular painting.

“Watson and the Shark,” he thought out loud, knowing Lestrade was used to his impromptu science and history lessons. If Donovan were here she would have called it ‘mansplaining,’ whatever that was. “Copley based this painting off a real shark attack in Havana, Cuba. A boy named Watson was attacked in the harbor. He lost his leg and was not rescued until the third attempt. He later commissioned Copley to paint the event and it became world famous.”

“Since when are you an expert in art history?” Lestrade asked.

“I’m an expert in everything.”

“Of course you are.”

He gasped as a sharp pang of realization hit him square in the chest. The blood drained out of his face in an instant. The selection of this particular painting was no coincidence at all: A figure named Watson being attacked by a shark . . .

It was a message for him.

“ _ John _ ,” he breathed.


	10. Gunshot

The cab pulled up to the aquarium and slowed to a halt. John shoved his money at the cabbie, not worrying about the change, and bolted out. 

The front door was locked, and the inside was dark. Dammit, he should have known, he thought as he cupped his face on the glass door to look inside. It was Sunday, and therefore the aquarium was technically closed. He checked Sherlock’s location on his GPS once again. The large red dot beeped steadily on the screen, indicating he was in the right place.

He jogged around to the side of the building, looking for an indicator of how Sherlock had broken in.  _ Or his captor, _ he thought as a jolt of fear ran through him. Perhaps he had been kidnapped on his way to the art museum with Lestrade and only had time to text him their code word before being taken to a dark, isolated location like this.

He picked up his pace and at last found a broken window with the glass pane lowered onto the grass.

_ Bingo. _

He ducked and climbed in to find himself in the oceanic section. Small tanks with various species of colorful fish lined the halls he jogged through. His phone told him he was getting nearer and nearer as he approached the shark exhibit. Anxiety spiked through him as he noted that he did not hear anything. No shouting or voices, no sounds of struggle.

Praying Sherlock wasn’t already dead or dying, he all but ran towards the sharks, turned a sharp corner, and found –

No one.

He frowned at his phone, staring in frustration at the overlapping dots marking the locations of his and Sherlock’s phones.

“Sherlock?” he called nervously, suddenly feeling very naked and vulnerable without his gun in his jacket.

He turned in a slow circle, sharks drifting ominously around him in the dark room. He felt the presence prickle down his spine before he heard it . . .

“Hello, John.”

His back stiffened at the sound of that voice, and he ever so slowly turned around.

Out of the shadows stepped . . . Mary. Dressed head to toe in her black assassin gear, complete with a vest and a currently-lifted ski mask over her head.

And she was holding a gun.

John’s world shook. His head spun and for a moment, he wondered if this was a dream. There was no way he was standing here in an empty aquarium with his wife holding a semi-automatic.

“M-Mary,” was all he was able to croak out.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, walking towards him. Every instinct told him to back up, but he stayed rooted to his spot. “I had hoped you’d come around, but deep down we both knew this marriage was over the day you found out who I was.”

His lip curled up sinisterly in that way that meant anything other than a pleasantry.

“That’s because I married Mary Morstan. Not Annabelle Abbot.”

“You married the first person who could tolerate your pathetic misery after Sherlock’s death.”

The truth of it stung, but he wasn’t going to let her take the upper hand that easily. 

“Where is Sherlock? Why did you bring me here?”

“Don’t ask silly questions, John. You know how I hate stating the obvious.”

Yes, the gun made her intentions quite obvious. But Sherlock . . . he was in the aquarium and yet, there was no sign of him.

“What have you done with him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not here.”

Confusion swirled in his mind. He stopped himself from looking around to check, knowing he needed to keep an eye on her and that semi-automatic. 

Mary smirked as she saw the realization dawn on his face. Realization that _she_  had sent the text, not Sherlock.

John’s mind flashed back to his wedding day - when Sherlock had gone off on a rampage in the middle of his best man speech, dropping in a quick “Vatican Cameos” for only his ears. 

“What is it? What does that mean?” Mary had asked. And he had told her.

He told her the meaning of their secret code word, used only in the most crucial emergencies. He handed her the key to playing them to her advantage, and now he, and most likely Sherlock, would pay for his mistake with their lives.

He closed his eyes in disappointment of his past self and shook his head just slightly. But she didn’t miss it. She smiled in a way that said both ‘ _ Yes, I remembered. _ ’ and ‘ _ Thank you for helping me devise this plan.’ _

“We have some time to kill, because dear Sherlock won’t realize where you are for a while,” Mary started. “So tell me. Why did you come back to me?”

So it was true that Sherlock wasn’t here. John assumed he was probably still with Greg investigating the case at the art museum, blissfully unaware of the danger he was in. If he could just keep Mary occupied long enough . . .

“If you must know, I never really did,” he answered, hoping it was vague enough to prompt further questions, thus allowing him to drag the conversation out longer.

She chuckled coldly in response. “Well, that much was obvious.”

Ever so slowly, John reached around to his back pocket, hoping he was coordinated enough to dial Lestrade without looking, and . . .

“Drop the phone.” Mary’s voice was suddenly loud and forceful, and he found himself staring right down the barrel of her gun.  “On the ground now. Kick it over here.”

John could only obey. He tossed it face down and put his hands up in defense. Mary’s voice instantly returned to the quiet softness he was used to and she lowered her gun. It was like watching an actress.

“I’ll ask again. Why not just take the opportunity to leave me? Was it the baby?”

“It was Sherlock. We had a plan.”

“And that worked out splendidly for you, didn’t it? You never thought that I could make plans of my own?”

“Mary, please . . .”

“You really think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“Of course not!” He could hear the anger growing in her voice, and was getting increasingly desperate now. With his hands still up, he cautiously took one step forward, hoping to rationalize.

“Mary,” he started.

“You thought you could hide my flash drive from me by hiding it in your closest? Your  _ closet _ , John? Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“I’m sorry I underestimated you. Truly.” He took another cautious step forward. “But Mary, listen to me. What are you hoping to gain from doing this?”

“A better life than the one I had with you.” He cocked his head at her in confusion. “If you must know, John, I’m gaining a partner who actually wants to be with me.”

“Moriarty,” he said, and she nodded solemnly.

He considered telling her he did want to be with her, but at this point they were way past pretending they had any kind of chance. Instead, he took another step forward. He was now within distance to dive to the ground and pick up his phone, or wrestle the gun from Mary. However, that last option seemed likely to either get one of them killed, or damage the glass tanks around them separating them from the sharks. 

“Step back.” Her harsh, commanding voice returned, startling him.  _ Dammit. _ He obeyed.

“I’m sorry, John.” She raised the gun to his chest. “This is really for the best. I hope you understand.”

He was now all but glaring at her with unconcealed contempt. “Mary,” he tried in one last attempt. But in his heart of hearts, he knew it was over. He didn’t stall long enough. All he could hope was that Sherlock would find his body and bring justice to him and all those who Mary had hurt.

“I love you, John.”

Staring straight into her eyes, he squared his shoulders and braced himself for death. “No you don’t.” 

Her eyes remained distant and cold, and she pulled the trigger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm such a nice person, I'm going to post the last chapter at the same time as this one :) You're welcome.
> 
> (Actually, it's just because the ch11 is super short, so there's no point in dragging it out)


	11. Get Your Attention

The sound of John’s heartbeat thumping in his ears was slowing noticeably.

His vision was fading out by the second. Not that he could see much in the first place, given that he was lying on the floor in a dark aquarium.

The empty silence echoed all around him, and he felt more alone than he had when he first returned from Afghanistan.

Mary had fled the instant she pulled the trigger. Stuffed her gun in her belt and disappeared into the shadows as quickly as she’d appeared. But not before stooping over his limp body and dropping a goodbye kiss on his lips. 

So this was how he was going to die. Alone. In the dark. Bleeding out. It really was quite a fitting end for him.

_ No. _

He couldn’t allow himself to think like this. This wasn’t like returning home invalided, when he’d had nothing and no one to live for. When every night he’d open his desk drawer and wonder how long it would take someone to notice he’d put a bullet in his brain. No, this wasn’t like that.

Now, he had a life and loved one to live for. To  _ fight _ for. Now, he had Sherlock. He had the love of his life and if nothing else, he at least needed to stay breathing long enough to tell him that. 

Mustering up as much strength as he had left in his body he extended his forearm on the ground and kicked off with his foot, in a sort of handicapped army crawl. At this point, the sweltering, red-hot pain in his torso was well past the point of unbearable.

He gasped for breath and only allowed himself a few seconds to recover before doing it again. A trail of blood smeared the carpet behind him as he slid along the floor. He kicked off one more time before he reached his phone - still face down on the carpet from when he’d tossed it at Mary.

With shaking hands, he flipped it over to see three missed calls from Greg. He smiled weakly to himself. So he’d gotten his call.

Before John had tossed the phone, he’d managed to call Greg, knowing he was with Sherlock. He made sure speaker was on and that the phone landed face down. His call obviously went to voicemail and had recorded whatever part of the conversation had been going on at the time. It didn’t matter which. All that mattered was that Greg, and by extension Sherlock, heard his and Mary’s voices.

With his last remaining ounce of willpower, he dialed 999. His trembling hand then dropped his phone, and he let all the strength deflate from his body as he lay on the floor in a growing puddle of his own blood.

It had been approximately a minute since he’d been shot, and his vision was now almost entirely imperceptible. He figured he had about four more minutes before he suffered permanent brain damage and irreversible blood loss. All he could do now was hope and pray that Greg and Sherlock were already on their way.

He wasn’t worried. Sherlock had tracked him down in much more difficult locations before. They’d survived worse than this and they’d continue to survive every ridiculous scenario the future had in store for him. At least, that’s what he had to tell himself to keep his chest rising and falling. 

_ He’ll come _ , John repeated to himself as he closed his eyes and rested his weakening head on the floor.

_ He always does.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT DON'T KILL ME YET!
> 
> This is end of Episode One! Stay tuned for a rewrite of TLD coming soon where I will resolve everything, don’t worry :) Just think of it as the hiatus between actual episodes that end in cliff hangers! 
> 
> I’m taking a brief break from this series to work on an teenlock AU I’ve been outlining for a while. But fear not, I’m definitely coming back to this. 
> 
> Thanks to @yorkiepug for being my beta for this fic! Also, if you’re on tumblr and want to be notified when I return to this series, just send me a message or ask @one-thousand-splendid-stars and I’ll add you to my tag list! Thanks for reading!


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